


Inspiration Strikes

by IcedAquarius



Series: Daminette December 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Daminette December 2020, Day 1 - Inspiration, F/M, inner thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcedAquarius/pseuds/IcedAquarius
Summary: Marinette's inspiration is not something easily explained.
Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Damian Wayne
Series: Daminette December 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036932
Comments: 2
Kudos: 111





	Inspiration Strikes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally posting something Daminette to Ao3!! I know I said you wouldn’t see me until the end of the week, but it kind of slipped my mind that it was Daminette December, and I need a bit of creative writing to save me from my droll schoolwork. I hope you enjoy this, it’s not very Christmas-y or winter-y or anything, but I hope it fits the prompt well. Come visit me at [batsandbugs](https://batsandbugs.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

Marinette couldn’t count the number of times she was asked where her inspiration came from. The question was rather a par for the course one for an artist. People flooded her Twitter and Instagram begging for behind the scenes looks at what was responsible for her creations; what dug inside her skin or lit the bulb above her head.

As far as she could tell, Marinette had never answered the question with 100% honesty.

When she was younger her answers had been simple; a building, or event, or even a color could send her spiraling, creating beautiful works of art with her mind and hands. Underneath the surface, however, there was always some unknown feeling, a rush of words on the tip of her tongue, wanting to spill forth. But for whatever reason she never was able to fully grasp, the words evaded her, the words that would fully encapsulate her inspiration. 

Those days had long since passed, and the words that had long escaped her came as she grew older. How to explain it properly, without sounding like a mad person, was a different question entirely.

Her inspiration came from the sky; the solid blues, the inky blacks, the warm reds and oranges, and everything in between. The tiny pinpricks of light dotting the night’s expanse, or the warm rays lavishing the earth in a warm embrace. It was the cool grey of misty mornings as it stretched over a quiet manor, or the watercolor masterpiece of sunsets spread out across the Parisian skyline. It was the expanse that never ended, always there and always changing.

Her inspiration came from noise; the sounds of creation, the hum of her sewing machine, the crunch of scissors cutting into new fabric, the rustle of fabric as she hand-stitched a placement for the third time. It came from the soft scratch of a pencil against paper, the low humming that was denied when pointed out, the soft scoff when annoyed. It came from grunts, screams, clashes of metal against metal, and pounding boots across rooftops. It came from whispered reassurances, raucous laughter, and endless teasing.

Her inspiration came from touch; the casual brushes of skin, the ruffles of hair, the victorious fist bumps, the side hugs from friends and family alike. It came from strong warm hands perfect to hold and catch, and caresses. It came from punches, kicks, and swipes. It came from harsh throws and rough pushes. It came from hurried, longing kisses and desperate embraces.

Her inspiration came from hope.

But also, despair.

Her inspiration came from the good; the drop in her stomach when she fell swung off a building, the smile brought to a child’s face with a simple wave, the rush of magic when the day was saved, the friends made, the enemies defeated, and the family found.

And her inspiration came from the bad; the aching muscles, the stinging cuts, the dripping blood. The endless nights with no sleep, and the hopeless days when you weren’t fast enough. It was the yelling and anger, the fighting and fear.

Her inspiration was the moments where she grasped for the strength to carry the weight of lives on her shoulders. The moments where she looked out at the world and screamed because there wasn’t enough left inside her to give anymore. The moments where she was small and weightless, unmoored in a sea ready to crush her beneath icy waves. The moments where she could do nothing but hold those she loved through tears and recriminations when the weight of death and dynasty entwined together and made a rope on which to choke.

Her inspiration was quiet night above the cities she loved – the one of her home and the one of her heart. It was the game nights with family and friends. The meetings with legends, and heroes, and gods. The baked goods and coffee that fueled her waking moments, and the precious memories that lulled her to sleep. It was a warm glow of knowing someone and being known in return, even though the endless dark of night.

And how, how, was she supposed to convey that?

Marinette couldn’t, and if she were honest, she never wanted to.

How could she tell the world that her inspiration was _life,_ in all of its beautiful messy glory, and not explain hers to show what she meant?

It was not for the world to know what her inspiration was, merely that it fueled her, and pushed her to greater heights. It was not for the world to know her inner depths, which were for those she loved and who loved her in return. And Marinette was perfectly fine with that.


End file.
